


Days of Homecoming

by shipatfirstsight



Category: Black Sails
Genre: (small) explanation for treasure island canon, Fluff, Fluff and light angst (past), Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Language, Post-Canon, They deserve all the fluff, fluffily ever after, i promise it's fluffy and happy, like there's some angst but I feel like the fluff overpowers it, maybe explicit?? idk its not a lot, post reunion, this is the fluffiest thing I've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 05:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16011452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipatfirstsight/pseuds/shipatfirstsight
Summary: James and Thomas take a trip to Nassau fifteen years later and are met with a surprise





	Days of Homecoming

_ 1731 _

The various patrons of the tavern all seemed to be doing their absolute best to ignore one drunk, raving man. There was a wide space around where he sat alone, but everyone in the room was fully capable of hearing what he was saying.

“I’m...Captain...Flint,” the drunk man slurred, taking a healthy swallow of his drink. “Terror...of...the...seas…”  and then the man promptly fell onto the table before him, snoring while the room seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

“Sad,” one man said, “what’s become of the captain.”

“Did you know him then?” his companion asks.

“No, but I did hear things. He was quite a terror, but…” his voice trails off with a nod towards the sleeping man.

Thomas had to hide a laugh behind his mug of ale as James swung his glare from the old drunk to him.

“Can’t believe this,” James muttered, bringing his own mug to his mouth before glancing back at the drunk man claiming to be him and setting his drink aside untouched.

“Is it really so bad, darling?” Thomas asks, pitching his voice so that only James will hear.

James’ face instantly softens. He gives a mock sigh. “I suppose not. These past fifteen years have been…” and he can’t keep up the tone of feigned resignation anymore. When he speaks again, he hears the trace of tears in his own voice, has to fight past a lump in his throat. “These past fifteen years have been so, so wonderful.”

His lover--husband, he corrects himself automatically, with an added  _ fuck you _ to Alfred Hamilton, and is surprised all over again at how  _ wonderful  _ it is to be able to call him that at all--gives him that soft smile he loves so. “We have had a few ups and downs.”

“None enough to make me turn to drink.” At least not permanently he amends. There had been few times since they found each other again--new and changed and hardened and scarred, but still somehow, fundamentally...still each other’s perfect match--that had been trying.  

* * *

 

James remembers two times in particular where he did in fact turn to drink to cope. The first….the first time he and Thomas had fought after being reunited, just after they’d escaped from the plantation. It had been about what he’d done as Flint--perhaps perversely, James had been angry at Thomas for not being angry at all he’d done. Thomas had told him that there was nothing to forgive, and James had raged for minutes, for hours, he wasn’t sure, detailing every horror. And Thomas had, stubborn as ever, insisted that he understood and still, that there was nothing that needed Thomas’ forgiveness. James hadn’t been able to stand the...acceptance on Thomas’ face. Not when James had wanted him to rail at him for the one thing he couldn’t give voice to. That he’d left Thomas behind. That he’d  _ left  _ him to suffer for eleven years. 

He’d left, made his way to the tavern in the closest village and drank himself into a stupor, staggering home when he couldn’t be away from Thomas for any longer. That feeling, he’s found, has lessened in the fifteen years they’ve been together, but was still there. The fear that this was all a dream and he’d wake to find Thomas gone, that need to find him as soon as possible coming up when he least expected it, just to reassure himself that Thomas was still there. 

Anyway, Thomas had been on their little porch, waiting for him, and he helped James up the stairs to their room. And he’d been able to voice that secret fear, that anger he was sure Thomas must have towards him, once they were lying together in their bed, Thomas holding him against his chest. 

“Aren’t you mad that I left you to suffer in both those places?” is what he asks, barely slurring the words.

And Thomas’ grip around his shoulders had tightened. But he’d only said, “Sleep, love. We’ll talk in the morning.”

In the morning, James woke alone and with a pounding head. There was a full glass on the dresser by the door, and he drank it without really tasting the contents. He didn’t think Thomas would leave without at least telling him, but…

He'd rushed downstairs. Thomas wasn’t there either, but there was a bowl porridge waiting for James on the table. He forced himself to stop and try to eat it. It was still warm, and so James figured Thomas couldn’t have gone far. He could find him--say goodbye…

The quiet creek of the backdoor broke through his frantic musings. Thomas stepped in, sleeves rolled up. He was carrying vegetables from their little garden, and his gaze unerringly found James, standing with the spoon halfway to his mouth, frozen. Thomas must have seen something on his face, because he quickly deposited his burden on the table and strode to him, gently taking the bowl and spoon out of his hands. He brought his hands to cup James’ cheeks, leaning down to touch their foreheads together. 

“Ah, James,” Thomas murmurs. “Do you know, I’ve been blaming myself for everything that you’ve gone through these long years?”

And just like that, James is angry. Furious. “How could you blame yourself?” he asks, incredulous and harsh to his own ears. 

Thomas pulls back slightly, but doesn’t remove the comfort of his hands from James, merely moving them down to grip him by the shoulders. “Am I to suppose you don’t blame me, then?”

“Of course not,” James bites out. “None of it was your fault. Your father’s decisions, Peter and Silver’s decisions, my own choices above all caused what I went through.”

“But  _ I  _ was the one that led to all those things, was I not?” There’s a smile rising on Thomas’ face, and James can see where this is headed and he feels a sigh burst through his lips.

“I don’t blame you,” he insists, stubborn, even knowing what Thomas is going to say next.

“You’re less at fault at what happened to me than I am in what happened to you, my love. If you don’t blame me, how can you think I would blame you?”

James sighs again, tugging his lover closer, wrapping his arms around him, and smiling into Thomas’ shoulder when he tugs James closer still.

Finally, after long minutes wrapped in each others arms, Thomas places a soft kiss on his forehead. “I’m not going to waste this new chance we’ve been given in being angry at you for no reason, James.”

James nods. “Alright. Alright.” He breathes deeply, the edge of a sob in the sound. Relief swamps him. The smile on Thomas’ face when they do pull away from each other feels like a benediction. “I love you,” James can’t help but say at that pure, true happiness on full display.

Impossibly, Thomas’ smile widens. He presses a soft kiss to James’ mouth, whispering, “I love you, too,” against his lips.

* * *

 

The second time had been only a few weeks later when Thomas had been brought back home in their nearest neighbor’s waggon, cradling his arm to his chest. James had fought to restrain the worry at that sight, forced himself to remain calm and fix whatever needed fixing. the woman had explained, quickly, that Thomas had been helping her cut down a branch on the tree that was getting too close to her house when the limb had broken and part of it had caught Thomas on the arm. James had helped Thomas down from the waggon, struggling with his deep need to swing the other man into his arms and carry him to their bed so James could take care of him.

James thanked the woman and asked her to fetch the doctor, over Thomas’ protests. He kept his arm around Thomas’ waist, uncaring if the woman thought anything of it, helping him into the house. Then, the door closed behind them, he’d given into his need to pick Thomas up. He protested the whole way up that stairs, but James ignored it.

 “I hurt my arm, James, I’m still capable of walking,” Thomas huffs once he’s been settled on their bed. 

“I needed to hold you,” James replied, somewhat haltingly, going to work examining and cleaning the long, jagged cut, tough it was mercifully short. It was no long bleeding, but the sight of it had caused James’ breathe to come shallow and his eyes to sting with tears.

“I’ll have another scar to add to my collection,” Thomas finally says, breaking the silence, a smile in his voice. “No one would believe it if I told them I’d been born to a lord just based on the amount of scars I’ve gained over the years.” 

“Don’t,” James said, his voice hard and unyielding. “Don’t joke about that.” 

“James,” Thomas murmurs, the previous lightness gone, replaced with a kind of wariness. 

“I know,” James had to swallow, force out the next words, taking Thomas’ hand gently in his, “I know you don’t blame me, but I still wish…” he trails off, tracing the scar on the back of the hand he’s holding.  _ Clumsiness,  _ was how Thomas had explained it, though he would say no more on the matter. “You shouldn’t be scarred. I wish you’d been able to live your life without ever being--”

Thomas cuts him off before he can continue. “I was scarred before all this, darling.”

“I know, love,” he says, stumbling a little over the endearment that feels awkward on his tongue but so,  _ so  _ right, ignoring the surprised smile Thomas gives him.  

James remembers the scars from before, though there hadn’t been that many. One from a fall Thomas had taken as a child from his horse on his right knee. The others, lashes across his back, long healed by that time. Thomas had never confirmed where or when he’d gotten that set of scars, but James had known. Alfred. Thomas would have been no more than a boy when he’d received it.  _ I should have killed him then,  _ James thinks, and he had been angry enough, even then before the worst of it, to do it. “I meant those scars as well.”

When the doctor finally arrived, James was told to, “Go drink something, you’re making the doctor nervous with all you’re glowering.” He obeys the command but only inasmuch as he goes downstairs, retrieves three bottles, and then marches back upstairs to keep an eye on the proceedings, muttering all the while about how he's  _allowed_ to  _fucking_ glower if he  _fucking_ wants to. 

It doesn’t take the doctor long to stitch up Thomas’ arm and bind it, but James has still finished more than half of the first bottle by the time the doctor is finished. “He’ll be all right then?” James asks, and leaves the  _ he had better be, or you won’t be  _ unspoken. 

The doctor swallowed nervously, fidgeting with his jacket. “There’s always the risk of infection, but I’d say his chances look good.”

James does not sleep well that night, choosing instead to alternatively drink--going back downstairs at one point to retrieve two more bottles--and check Thomas’ forehead for fever. 

In the morning, he wakes on the bed, not remembering falling asleep or even climbing in beside Thomas, but there he is, his arm slung over his lover’s stomach. He glances up, intent on checking for fever again, ignoring the way the sun shining in his eyes is making his head feel like it is splitting open, to find Thomas smiling down at him. 

“I’m fine,” Thomas says softly. “You don’t need to worry.”

Whether from the lingering effects of the alcohol or from all the emotion of the past twelve hours, James forces himself up and presses his face to Thomas’ neck. “Don’t leave me,” he breathes out. “Please,  _ please _ , love, don’t leave me.”

“Shh,” Thomas soothes, stroking his back. “I don’t intend to.”

_ My love,  _ James thinks, pressing a kiss to his neck, not with the intention for it to go any further, but...suddenly, he’d quite desperate to let Thomas know...or to let out...just how much he loves him. 

Before he can stop the words, or even really think about them, he finds himself saying, “You’re my North Star.” And then feels his ears heat with embarrassment. Thomas doesn’t laugh, though, just waits for the explanation...and so he finds himself continuing, though he does raise his heated face to look at Thomas, “You’re my...my home. My love. You’re here,” he says, placing a hand on his heart. “I always felt...like you’ve always been here. Like I was just looking for you my whole life, waiting to come home.” 

“ _ James,”  _ Thomas breathes, and James can see the tears forming in his eyes, though the smile on his lips reassures him. Somehow they’re kissing, and he doesn’t know who pulled who to who. If they both tugged the other closer. It doesn’t matter, he thinks, all that matters is this: the press of their lips together, open and searching and hot and oh  _ so  _ right.  

“Marry me,” he finally whispers against Thomas’ mouth. Hears his love’s soft exclamation of happy surprise. 

“I was sure I’d have to ask you that one day,” Thomas says, instead of answering, and James presses another quick kiss to his mouth, laughing softly. There had been a time he would never have considered this a possibility… but now. Well, he remembers what Thomas said about not wasting time, and he doesn’t want to waste time either. Not in this.

“Is that a yes, my lord?” he asks, teasingly, laughing still, giddy with happiness. 

“Yes,” Thomas answers, so simple, and James kisses him again, and again, absorbing the feel of his smile. 

In the end, they repeat vows without leaving their bed, and it’s perfect and theirs. And  _ right _ , so right, and he can’t believe they’ve waited even this long to do this since finding each other. 

James insists Thomas rest for the rest of the day. “Infection.” is all he says, and Thomas grumbles a bit, but that smile never leaves his lips. 

“You’ll have to keep me company,” he finally says, “besides, it doesn’t look like you got any sleep last night.”

And since James hadn’t planned on leaving his husband for the day, anyway, he climbs back into bed. Feels his eyes grow heavy as the exhaustion from the night he’s had sweeps over him. 

As he’s drifting to sleep, he hears Thomas, softly say, “My truest love. You’re my North Star too.”

* * *

 

This trip was the first time James had been back to Nassau in fifteen years. Thomas had wanted to see it, and to see where Miranda lived. To honor her, Thomas had said, and all that she’d meant to the both of them. And James had felt ready for that, and to go back at all. He still felt… the absence of Miranda, and he knew Thomas did as well. He had wanted to do this, to remember her really, truly, without all the rage. 

Some precautions had to be taken, of course. His hair had already grown long--Thomas hadn’t asked, or said anything negative about his hair, but he’d known how Thomas had enjoyed running his hands through it. Of course, he’d always enjoyed it as well. They’d both been worried that he might be recognized either by his former associates, as Thomas had taken to calling them, or by the soldiers on the island. 

Shaving his beard seemed the best way to try and stop anyone from remembering him. He’d kept it, all these years, never allowing it to get overly long. Thomas didn’t seem to mind, as he said often enough that James had only grown more beautiful over the years. But still, Thomas had seemed…entranced by the first sight of him without a beard since London all those years ago.

He’d kissed James, long and hard, hands cupping his face. “What was that for?” James had asked, when they’d finally broken apart.

“I saw you and remembered what it felt like to see you for the first time and feel…” he trailed off, kissing him again. “I didn’t dare hope you’d ever want me back. But still, I felt the spark of possibility. Seeing you like this reminded me of that.” 

They’d gone together to where Miranda’s house had once been. Neither of them had tried to hide their tears, their sorrow at their loss, sitting on the ground, arms wrapped around each other.

“She should be here,” James had murmured into Thomas’ chest. “She should be with us.”

Thomas hadn’t said anything for a moment, merely held him, but James felt his arms grow tighter around him. “I used to wish we’d--I’d listened to her. That we’d been more careful. I still wish she hadn’t died as a result of us loving each other,” Thomas pauses, and James pulls away to run a searching gaze over his face; his Thomas merely gazes where the house once stood. “I’m selfish, my love. I don't know if I would have traded a moment with you for anything. Not for my freedom, certainly. I wish I had been able to stop her death, though.”

And James...understands. Understands the agony that crosses Thomas’ face. “Thomas,” James waits until the other man looks at him. “I know. Everything I’ve gone through, everything we all went through, I would do it again to have that time in London with you. We can’t change what happened. I wish I’d been better to her while she lived and we grieved for you. I wish she had been there to see you restored to us. But I couldn’t have given you up.”

“What does that make us?” Thomas asks, voice thick.

“In love. Maybe selfish,” James answers. He stretches up, kissing the corner of Thomas’ mouth. “We can’t change what happened. We mourn her, we keep loving her, as she deserved.”

They trade stories after that, fond memories of Miranda. They’ve both told each other all this before, but neither of them mind. “She was wonderful, wasn’t she?” Thomas murmured when they stood, James taking his proffered hand. They both waved to the house as they walked away.  

Then they’d found this place and found this drunk masquerading as him. It seemed that all his worries about being recognized were unfounded.  “I did shave my beard for nothing,” James says, pressing his knee closer to Thomas’.

“Not for  _ nothing _ ,” Thomas teases, voice pitched low. “I for one enjoyed our time tangled up together in our bed, pretending I was seducing you after that first meeting.”

 James feels his ears go red. “That did make it all rather worth it.”

* * *

 

“It’s for the best,” James finally decides out loud after they’ve left the tavern and found their way back to their temporary bed. “Captain Flint can die with him. I’d much rather die with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...and they lived happily ever after the end.
> 
>  
> 
> This was supposed to focus more on this guy pretending to be Captain Flint (and focus more on explaining Treasure Island canon) but... I became absorbed by the fluff. 
> 
> Title is taken from The Odyssey:
> 
> "....what I want and all my days I pine for is to go back to my house and see my day of homecoming. And if some god batters me far out on the wine-blue water, I will endure it, keeping a stubborn spirit inside me, for already I have suffered much and done much hard work on the waves and in the fighting." 
> 
> because I love that quote. 
> 
> The "North Star" thing is a direct reference to this [tumblr post](http://lostcap.tumblr.com/post/132780947618/soulmates-arent-rare-they-arent-youll-meet-a) which is so them I could cry.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://shipatfirstsight.tumblr.com)


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